The Tenth Saint (4 page)

“Sorry, sorry.”

Sarah untied the bandana from her wrist and held it tightly against the wound. When the bleeding was under control, she leaned into a pile of rocks to steady herself and summon the strength for the downhill trek. Even in her rattled state, she could not help but admire the symmetry of the structure. The stones before her were neatly stacked, as if they had been wedged into the cliffside by nature’s stonemasons. But there was something odd about the orderly pattern. She looked closer but could not wrap her mind around it. She didn’t know if she was delirious with pain and seeing things, but behind a jumble of roots was what looked like an etching in the stone, a rough outline of the Coptic cross, perhaps, or some variation.

She looked behind her at Ejigu, who was throwing pebbles into the void. She turned to the etching, slipping her hand behind the roots to access the surface of the stone. She ran her fingers inside the grooves of the symbol. It was ragged, worn by time and the elements. Her heartbeat quickened.

Ejigu clapped to get her attention. “Hello? We have to go soon. The sun will disappear.”

He was right. The sun was starting its descent behind the mountain. It would be dark before long, and they still had a good two hours’ hike ahead.

She followed him down, cursing her curiosity every agonizing step of the way.

That night, after paying an after-hours visit to the town doctor and returning to camp with a host of painkillers, Sarah sat at her laptop and sketched the symbol from memory. Now she wasn’t so sure it was a Coptic cross. Unlike the crux ansata, the symbolic cross of the Coptic Christian church, this had two circles, one inside the other, with a cross dissecting the inner circle in four equal parts. The staff of power, the vertical line extending down from the center of the circle, was broken. Sarah wasn’t sure if that was intentional or due to the erosion of what could have been hundreds of years. She referred to her online encyclopedia of symbols but found nothing exactly like it.

As much as she enjoyed figuring things out on her own, she had no choice but to consult the sym-bologists at Cambridge. She scanned her sketch and e-mailed it to Stanley Simon, the head of the archaeology department at the university.

Professor:

Found this symbol etched into a cliff face en route to
Dabra Damo. Variation of the Coptic cross—or is it? In the same vicinity: a pile of rocks a little too perfectly arranged. My instinct says it’s man-made. Plan to explore more tomorrow. Your thoughts.

S. W.

Under the influence of painkillers, Sarah slept soundly until 5:30 the next morning. When her phone rang, she was disoriented and had no clue where she was. Instinctively she picked up and regarded her phone as if it were an extraterrestrial object. Regaining her faculties, she focused on the caller ID: Stanley Simon. With a start, she realized she was still in Aksum and had slept an hour later than normal. “Professor,” she croaked. “I assume you got my e-mail.”

“You sound dreadful.” The voice on the other end was gruff and curmudgeonly, the professor’s usual tone when he was displeased. “Have you only now woken up?”

“It’s a long story. Had a bit of trouble yesterday.”

“I’m not sure I want to know. What were you doing on the high cliffs anyway? The funerary chamber is in the valley. Or have you forgotten?”

“No, sir. I mean … This was a bit of a detour. I was looking into a lead.”

“A detour? A lead?” His voice cracked. “Sarah, need I remind you what you have been sent to Aksum to do? Do you realize you have been at it five months and already spent a half million sterling of UNESCO grant money? A lot of people are getting anxious over this expedition. They want to see results. I cannot continue to make excuses for you, particularly whilst you amble along, pursuing random leads from dubious sources.”

“It isn’t like that. I saw the artifacts. They were authentic. I thought it was worth a couple of hours of my time to go check it out.”

“Young lady, you may not realize this, but we are in hot water with our funder right now. UNESCO are getting very impatient. They want to send a consultant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. They have dispatched Daniel Madigan to Aksum. He should be arriving in a week’s time.”

Daniel Madigan—she knew that name. “Do you mean the preening American? Isn’t he busy starring in some documentary or other?”

“Whether you approve or not, Dr. Madigan is one of the leading scholars of the Saudi Arabian region. In fact, he’s at the Empty Quarter now with a group from King Saud University, and they are making excellent progress … unlike some.”

She recalled reading reports about the cultural anthropologist’s work at Qaryat al-Fau, the ancient city hidden beneath the Arabian sands. The project had earned him worldwide renown, not least of all because he had produced and starred in an IMAX film about his research. “Fine. I’ll play along. But if he shows up with a film crew, I’m out of here.”

“Sarah, I beg of you, don’t embarrass the university. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but there is rather a lot at stake here.”

Simon’s condescending tone grated on Sarah’s nerves. She tried her best to ignore it. “Professor? I don’t suppose you checked into that symbol I sent you.”

“Of course I checked into it. The boys at divinity don’t believe it’s a crux ansata at all. They were firm about that. The Coptic cross has but one circle. A double circle such as this holds no theological symbolism. Concentric circle ideograms have been found on prehistoric cliff paintings in the Sahara, but those were pagan symbols.”

“But what of the cross? Surely that has some religious significance. Especially considering its proximity to the monastery.”

Simon huffed. “Sarah, take my advice and let that go. You have your hands full with your current task. There is no time for detours. Do you understand?”

She understood perfectly, but there was no denying her intrigue. She hung up, annoyed that after all those years, the professor still treated her like a child. He’d known her since she was one—he and her father, Sir Richard Weston, had been childhood pals, university classmates, and explorers in the high Himalayan regions—but that didn’t give him the right to belittle her.

As friendly as he was with her father, Simon had never warmed to Sarah. He saw her as a bit of a maverick, really. So when he’d insisted she lead the Aksum expedition, going against the conventional wisdom that demanded a more seasoned, preferably male, professional at the helm of a project so grave, she was more stunned than anyone. She’d wondered if her father had anything to do with it but kept her reservations to herself. She did not want to tamper with whatever alchemy had brought her the opportunity she’d wanted for so long.

She splashed water on her face and changed the dressing on her stitched arm. Her curiosity would one day be her downfall, but she could not contain herself.

She heard a knock at the door.

“Sarah? It’s Aisha. Are you all right? The crew has been waiting an hour for instructions.”

Sarah opened the door.

Like a bewildered gazelle, the girl looked at her leader’s wounded arm.

“I’m quite all right. Tell the crew to carry on digging east of the AB stele. Then fetch Dennis and Marcus and gather the rope and carabiners. We are going for a little walk.”

Three

I
n the lab, Sarah recorded metal tools and coins the crew had unearthed the day before. A car horn tore through the stillness of the summer morning. It could mean only one thing. Leave it to an American to announce his arrival in such a crass manner.

She looked out the window, watching as Daniel Madigan stepped out of a beat-up, blue Land Cruiser. He looked just like he did in his documentaries: a rugged, square-jawed figure in dusty khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt from an old Smiths concert. A snake tattoo wrapped around his left bicep. His hair, which brushed the nape of his neck, was a jumble of loose chestnut waves with strokes of gray at the temples hinting at his fortysomething years. Darkened to a tobacco shade by the Arabian sun and sporting the lean muscular physique of someone who worked outdoors, he looked like a middle-aged rock star. He reached into the back of the Land Cruiser and pulled out two army-green duffels and an aluminum computer case. He was staying awhile.

She walked outside to meet him, locking the door to the lab behind her. “Hello, Dr. Madigan. Welcome to Aksum.”

“I see you know who I am,” he said in a southern drawl. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

She managed a tense smile. “Well. You need no introduction. Your reputation precedes you.”

His gaze traveled slowly down her body. “As does yours. You are Lord Weston’s daughter, aren’t you?”

She cringed. She hated when people referred to her as Lord Weston’s daughter, as if she had no value of her own. The comparison to her bigger-than-life father, a titled aristocrat and member of the British Parliament’s House of Lords, followed her everywhere, even on this dusty mountaintop in remotest Africa. She tried not to show her outrage. “You know my father,” she said with false politeness.

“We met last year at the fund-raiser for Medecins Sans Frontières.” He butchered the French with his Tennessee accent. “Dreadful evening. If it weren’t for your father, I would have left after the foie gras. That guy’s one hell of a storyteller.”

“I’m sure you have rather a lot in common,” she said, masterfully disguising her sarcasm.

“Two men with a passion for exploration never run out of things to say. In fact, I was at his place in Belgravia for a dinner party just before leaving for the desert. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about it.”

“My father and I haven’t spoken for an absolute age. I’ve been rather busy with my own projects. Now, then, is this your first time in Ethiopia?”

“Oh, heavens no. I spent a lot of time in Africa back in the eighties, researching in the Olduvai Gorge for my postdoctoral studies. I went back and forth between Ethiopia and Tanzania for the better part of a year. Then I hung out in Addis with some local skull diggers for a couple of months. We traveled up here for the hell of it. You know, sightseeing.”

“Really? That surprises me. There’s a deep connection between the ancient Aksumites and the people of Arabia. I should think that would be of interest to you, Dr. Madigan.”

“It is. But it wasn’t at the time. And for God’s sake, call me Danny.”

“Very well.” She nodded toward one of the porters, a slight African with bare feet and a loose white gauze turban. “Soto will show you to your quarters. When you get settled, come meet me in the lab so I can brief you on our status.”

He flashed a confident smile. “You’re the boss, lady.”